


The God of Lost Souls

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: TGGTVAV Challenge Fics [5]
Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood, Child Abuse, God of Wine, Gods, M/M, Muse of Music, Mutual Pining, Mythology - Freeform, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Original Mythology, Pining, Wine, he's the narrator - Freeform, just one original character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Hello.  My name is… well, it doesn’t matter, I guess.  This story isn’t about me.  I’m just your narrator.  It’s better this way, trust me.  Or don’t trust me.  I’m not usually a person people call ‘trustworthy’, but I’m not a liar.  And what I’m about to tell you is one hundred percent true.Are you ready?  Okay.  Here goes: twenty years ago, on March 18th, I tried my hand at summoning a god.  More specifically, the god of wine and lost souls.  That’s not the part you’re going to doubt—the part you’re going to doubt is the fact that heactually appeared.
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Series: TGGTVAV Challenge Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638925
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24
Collections: TGGTVAV AU Challenge Fics





	The God of Lost Souls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [em_gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Marks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961632) by [em_gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/pseuds/em_gray). 



> Ironically enough, I got a nosebleed while writing this. Rip.
> 
> Anyway! I took the hourglass from em_gray's fic Marks to make this god AU! Hope you like it!

Hello. My name is… well, it doesn’t matter, I guess. This story isn’t about me. I’m just your narrator. It’s better this way, trust me. Or don’t trust me. I’m not usually a person people call ‘trustworthy’, but I’m not a liar. And what I’m about to tell you is one hundred percent true.

Are you ready? Okay. Here goes: twenty years ago, on March 18th 1999, I tried my hand at summoning a god. More specifically, the god of wine and lost souls. That’s not the part you’re going to doubt—the part you’re going to doubt is the fact that he _actually appeared_.

First… some context. I was in this relationship then, with this real piece of work. I thought I was in love, at first—he liked to pay when we went out on dates and he gave me gifts and… look, I don’t want to think about that stuff. He was good, okay, that’s all you need to know. He was good… until he wasn’t. And by then, I was in too deep to get out.

I was trapped. I was desperate. And you know what they say when you’re alone and lost and you have nowhere left to turn, right? That old saying? ‘It’s time to tip your wine’? Well, I thought… what the hell. I was on my way to becoming a crime statistic, just… _what the hell_. I had no other options. So I snuck out of the house late at night with a bottle of apothic crush, uncorked it by the side of the road, and poured it out into a ditch.

I closed my eyes as I felt the bottle grow lighter and lighter in my hand, wine hitting the rotted leaves in the bottom of the ditch the only sound in my ears. “This… this is my offering,” I said to the night. I felt… kind of stupid, to be honest. Why did I think this would work? Why would he come… for _me_? Even if the tales were true, even if the myths were real, why would a god show up for a poor, beaten homosexual like me?

He wouldn’t, was the answer to that. Or so I thought. I opened my eyes again, breathing out white mist into the chill. I’d wasted a perfectly good bottle of wine for no reason. _He_ was going to make sure I paid for that, and not with money. I sighed. Then I turned to go, and… nearly tripped over a young man sitting on the curb.

“Nice wine,” he said, pointing to the bottle in my hand. “A little cheap for my tastes, but it’s good for its price.”

I shrugged. “I don’t drink.” I then made to brush past him. Weirdo had probably been staring at me the entire time without me even realizing he was there. It was time to go home.

Only… something stopped me. Or rather… someone. The man, he’d stood up—he was somehow shorter than I expected, barely to my nose—and his hand had locked around the base of the bottle. 

For a moment, I stood there, shocked. Then I twitched, letting go all at once. If he wanted it he could have it. Just as long as he didn’t try to grab _me_ , we were cool. I watched carefully, to make sure he wasn’t going to club me over the head with the bottle, but he had already turned away, toward the ditch. 

I should have left. I should have taken my chance to creep away while he was otherwise occupied. But I didn’t, and I can’t… I can’t tell you why. There was just… something about him that made me stop… go still… and watch as he twirled a finger in the air.

And I am so, _so_ glad I didn’t leave. Because just then, from the rotting foliage at the bottom of the ditch, something began to rise. Something small, and dark, like droplets of blood… but it wasn’t blood. It was wine. And it rose… and rose… and slowly, like water shot with a slow-motion camera, began to coalesce together and glide back into the bottle the man was holding aloft.

I stared. From the wine to the man and back again. He was nothing special-looking—he was wearing jeans that were worn and ragged around the cuffs, dirty sneakers, a dusty hoodie. His hair was shorn short on the sides and long in the front, a dirty blond. He was wearing fingerless gloves on his hands. 

I stared harder. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but… it felt like there should be something, you know? Some sign of divinity. But there wasn’t. Not even as he corked the bottle and held it out again. 

“Like I was saying, it’s good wine,” he said, a smirk quirking up the corner of his lips, revealing a deep dimple in his cheek. “Just not really to my taste.”

I took the bottle as if in a trance. “You… you’re…”

“Call me Monty,” he said. 

I was probably gaping at him, something I’m sure he was used to. He was a god, after all. The god of wine and lost souls… son of the god of the sky and the goddess of the earth… the lover of the muse of music…

“Where’s your lover?” I blurted out, quite without meaning to.

The god—Monty—laughed. “He’s resting.”

Resting? _He_? Just those two words had given me about a million more questions, and I felt them pushing at the back of my tongue. I held myself back, though. It wasn’t my place to ask questions. 

The god’s bright blue eyes cut over to me, that playful smirk still on his face. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he said. “I don’t bite. Often.”

“Right,” I said, and winced at myself. I hugged the wine bottle to my chest, searching for the fortitude to go on. “I was just, um… wondering if the stories are true?”

The god turned away, looking out over the landscape before us. The ditch, and the spindly trees beyond it, and the rolling hills beyond them, the buildings that crept up between them… I turned to stare out, too. We were both silent for a long moment. I wondered just when my ratty hometown had become so beautiful. Then… then the god began to talk, and this is what he said:

Six thousand years ago, when humans were still painting their caves and hunting their mammoths, the sky and the earth collided. It was magnificent. It was terrifying. It was exactly as the old gods had predicted.

See, the sky and the earth were not new things. They had existed for billions and billions of years. Back then, at the beginning, the gods were feral creatures, with lips that spoke in hisses and growls and immutable sounds. But their days as the protectors of the domains of nature were numbered. They predicted their own deaths—that the old gods would burn and from their ashes new ones would rise. Six families of gods would rise, to be exact. And from each of these families, three children would be born—and from these children, three more children in turn, and so on and so forth.

Now, the creation of a godling is not like the creation of a human. Gods are born of nature, of the infinite domains that nature boasts. And every time a godling is born, the other gods watch closely until they begin to show signs of an affinity, a proclivity, toward one or two domains, which then become theirs to rule over.

The first generation was born of embers and ash. The six families rose, taking twelve domains, the domains of love, sunlight, war, the hunt, wisdom, the harvest, the dead, fire, childbirth, the winds, the sky, and the earth. The god of love and the goddess of war became a pair, taking their place at the thrones of the underworld, and from them came forth three new gods. Similarly the gods of the hunt and the harvest took to each other, taking their place in the heavens. The winds and fire paired up, and the dead and childbirth, and wisdom and sunlight, each pair taking their place in the heavens or the underworld.

The last to pair up were the goddess of the earth and the god of the sky. They crashed together and from their might, the crack of thunder and the quake of earth, came an infant, one they hoped would become the god of a great and powerful domain just like theirs, who would carry on the legacy of the sky and the earth themselves. They took their place in heaven and they watched. Closely, they watched. They took the child from place to place to try and encourage him to take up a domain. They waited and waited, each day growing less and less patient with the child.

It was by accident that they stumbled upon the vineyard. They meant to go to the volcano nearby, but instead stumbled upon a planting of grapevines that was taking advantage of the fertile volcanic soil. And that was where the boy showed his affinity, for when he reached out the grapes on the vines grew large and heavy, bursting open and spilling wine, red and beautiful, on the black earth below.

The boy was delighted, but his parents… his father… he was furious. The god of the sky raised his hand and struck the child then and there with the might of the heavens behind him. 

Thus, the god of wine took up his domain, with golden ichor dripping down his lips.

Things weren’t all terrible for the boy. There were fates in the heavens with him, and personifications, and the other godlings… he had no shortage of friends to play with. But his best friend, his closest friend, was a muse. 

Muses didn’t take up their domains the same way as gods did. When a new muse was born, the eldest muse would pass along their domain as a gift. This muse… the friend of the god of wine… was proclaimed the muse of music.

The god of wine and the muse of music… they were inseparable. But even so, the muse had a secret, a terrible terrible secret that he could tell no one. You see, the occupants of the heavens and the underworld each had a role to play. The occupants of the heavens were in charge of creation—and the occupants of the underworld were in charge of destruction. They had to be balanced, an equal number on either side, to ensure that the universe turned as it was supposed to.

The muse’s mother… she tipped the balance of the universe. She fled from the underworld where she was born to birth her child in the light of the heavens, condemning her child to terrible fits. He was misplaced, his blood calling for the darkness below.

The god of wine was ignorant to the rumors and the stories. He knew the muse was sickly, but he didn’t realize how awful the fits were, because the muse would lock himself away as they happened. But the god of the sky… he was a sharp, intelligent god. He realized that the balance of the universe was off. He realized that the muse did not belong. And he realized that the muse hid away out of love, that the muse’s heart belonged to the sky god’s son. 

Cold, and calculating, the god of the sky called the muse to his throne room. There he showed the muse a great golden hourglass, full of black volcanic sand. He said, “In one year’s time, when the sand in this hourglass has all fallen, you will leave the heavens forever. You will stay away from the light of the heavens, from the domains of creation. You will never see my son again. Do you understand?”

And the muse nodded, because he was weak compared to the god of the very skies they resided in. He had no leverage, no way out. One year’s time was generous—the god could have driven him out that very day if he so chose. 

So the days went by, and the muse treasured every moment he had with the god of wine. He longed to kiss him, to hold him as a lover did. He watched as the god of wine had affairs with other godlings and personifications and satyrs and sirens. It was excruciating, to watch the god of wine bed whoever he wanted, and to know that the muse wasn’t on that list. He began to think that the god of the sky had known that this love was only one-sided, and had chosen to let him stay to torment him. The muse cried at night, wishing he could just leave but knowing he would never squander the time he had left in the heavens, in the light.

Months passed, and the black sand flowed, and the muse lamented, drawing bow across strings. The god of wine continued on, oblivious. And then, all at once, came the day that the muse had been dreading—the day the final grain of sand fell from the top of the hourglass to the bottom.

That was it. There was no more time. So the muse collected his things and, without saying goodbye, turned to leave the heavens behind…

…Only to find the god of wine standing at the gate to the underworld, his face streaked with ichor but his eyes blazing with determination. 

“How did you figure it out?” the muse asked, gently reaching for the god’s face, to wipe away the divine golden blood.

The god smiled, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “I didn’t. My sister told me.”

The muse laughed, a choked sound. “The goddess of medicine is smart. You’re lucky to have her as a sister. But darling… you can’t come with me.”

“I know,” the god said. “We would only tip the scales the other way.”

“Then what do you think you’re doing, waiting for me here?” the muse asked. “We can never see each other again, we can never…”

“…be together?” the god finished for him. The muse nodded. “Well, not in the godly realm, we can’t.”

“What are you saying?” the muse asked. He had his hand pressed to his heart, trying to keep it from beating faster with excitement. There was no way that the god would run away with him. There was no way the god would leave this all behind to go into the human world.

The god’s eyes blazed again, bright and fiery and true. “If we leave here, if we wander the earth like mortals… we will always be together and there is nothing the heavens nor the underworld can do about it.”

The muse bit his lip, rocking back and forth. “You love others,” he said. “You have always loved others. How can I expect you to love me and stay forever?”

The god breathed out. “The others were a distraction. I have always wanted you. Just you. I want you forever and ever, for all the rest of time… if you’ll have me.”

And the muse said yes, and the two embraced, and together they set off into the mortal realm, away from fathers who struck their children and hourglasses that counted out the seconds left to love. They left… and they never looked back.

…

“And that’s the story, the truth,” Monty said, leaning back to stare up at the sky, the heavens. I had no reason to believe him—the stories I’d always heard went so differently—but looking at him, seeing the longing in his eyes, and the relief, and the determination, all mixed up together…

…How could I not believe him?

It was quiet for a long moment. I wondered if he had somewhere to go—back to his muse, perhaps. Why he’d even come when I called I had no idea. I wasn’t worth his time.

I was biting my lip so hard that it had started bleeding. I flinched when I felt his fingers on my cheek, turning me to face him.

“I am the god of wine,” he said, his eyes blazing with blue light. “I learned that when I was a baby. But I am also the god of lost souls. I learned _that_ when I became a lost soul myself. A god who has turned his back on the heavens…” He laughed, a sharp sound. “A god who has turned his back on the heavens cannot turn his back to the mortals who call to him. I will always come when you call. I will always help. Don’t you dare think you are unworthy. You are in my domain. Do you understand?”

I stared, nodding slightly. His eyes flickered like a candle, slowly burning away in the night. “So you… you’ll help me?” I asked, breathless.

“I will,” he said. And he smiled, the dimples cutting into his cheeks. And I had never, ever in my life believed in the benevolence of the gods until that very moment. Monty helped me, led me away from _him_ , took me under his wing… and twenty years later I’ve found the man who the younger me thought was a pipe dream. We were married last June. 

And in the back of the venue, in the shadows there, stood a figure in plain jeans and a hoodie. I knew his smile, his dimples, but I no longer needed his help. I waved once, and he waved back, and then he was gone.

I haven’t seen him since.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Icarus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23217913) by [em_gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/pseuds/em_gray)




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